Arms-Commander (3 page)

“Lornth isn't the problem. Lady Zeldyan has her hands full with the Jeranyi and Ildyrom's son. It took five years for the Jeranyi to sort out which of Ildyrom's sons would be Lord of Jerans. That's why they didn't resume hostilities against Lornth, but that could all change soon, now that Zeldyan's son is getting old enough to rule. It's one thing to remove a woman, but the lord-holders there tend to think twice about going after male rulers.”

“Nesslek's what…eleven?”

“The years are longer here. He's twelve in terms of Sybran years, and at fifteen local years he can rule, even if he really leans on his mother and his grandfather.”

“Karthanos…?”

Ryba nodded. “Gallos. Not Karthanos himself. I've received word that Lord Karthanos is ill. He may recover. He may not, but he will not rule Gallos for much longer, and his son hardly has any love for Westwind.”

“Oh?” asked Saryn.

“Do you recall how Balyea came here?”

“Yes. She's the beautiful one who brought her mother and the wagon and the looms. Without her…we'd be far less well clad.”

“She brought a small chest of golds to allow her sons to remain with her.”

The two boys had barely been more than babes in arms. Even now, they were only six and seven. “She said that she was fleeing an abusive husband and that Westwind was the only place she could be sure she would not be reclaimed.”

“I'm more than certain that Arthanos was abusive, but he wasn't her husband.”

“Arthanos? She's never mentioned his name. Not that I know.” Saryn paused. “Oh…he's
that
Arthanos? She was his mistress, then?”

“Exactly. He's a very nasty piece of work. His oldest brother was part of the small Gallosian contingent in the attack on Westwind, and did not survive. Not all that surprisingly, his next-older brother died last fall in a riding accident. Now his father is ill…”

“Does he know that Balyea is here?”

“He tortured enough people to discover that.” Ryba might have been discussing what road needed to be paved next.

“When will he attack?”

“Late spring or sometime in summer, well before the harvest in Gallos. We'll need all the explosive devices you can manage.”

“Arthanos will have white wizards.”

“They aren't that good at detonating explosives buried in rock and soil, especially those that aren't all that close.”

Saryn understood that Ryba saw—and foresaw—more than anyone logically could, but she'd yet to have been wrong when she said something was going to happen, and that meant another war—or series of battles. And more deaths. Given the position of the angels of Westwind and Ryba's determination, Saryn's only choice was to work to make certain the deaths were overwhelmingly those of the Gallosians.

In the late evening, Saryn and Istril sat in the darkness of the long room that doubled as the dining hall and common room of Tower Black, across from each other at the corner of the long table nearest the iron stove in the hearth. Neither needed light, not with their nightsight. Unlike Istril, who was full Sybran and bred to the cold, Saryn fully appreciated the residual heat from the stove. The bark tea remaining in her mug had cooled to lukewarm, but she enjoyed the warmth of the mug in her hands.

“We need more men,” Istril said, her voice low.

Saryn's eyes darted upward, in the direction of the topmost levels of Tower Black.

“I know how Ryba feels,” the silver-haired healer continued. “Because many of the locals arrived pregnant or with children, it doesn't look like that big a problem yet. But it will be.”

“There have been a few children born here from others,” Saryn offered. “Certainly, your three silver-tops—”

“Only one of them is mine, and half the time I'm not sure about that,” Istril said dryly. “They belong to each other more than to their mothers. Still…the three and Hryessa's daughters are the only ones conceived and born here.”

Saryn could sense the hint of pain behind Istril's words. Unlike any of the others, Istril had given up her son, Weryl, to his father when Nylan had left Westwind. Both Saryn and Istril knew that had been for the best. Neither spoke of it often, and then only fleetingly.

“We can't keep counting on refugees,” Istril went on. “Each year they have to go through more to reach Westwind. It's harder for those coming from the east. We have to find a way to get men who will fit with Ryba's visions and views.”

“You want to turn men into what women are in the rest of this world? The men of this world would rather die, those worth having, anyway.” Saryn's thoughts went back. Thousands of men had died trying to destroy Westwind. For what? To try to deny a few hundred women the right to live the way they chose?

“No,” replied Istril. “Why couldn't we establish a better model? We could use crafters. What if we told the women who have come here to let their relatives know we welcome crafters, and that they would never have to bear arms or pay taxes—they call them tariffs here—but the price for that life was to pledge absolute obedience to the Marshal?”

Saryn shook her head. “Even if some would come, she's not ready for that.”

“After ten years? How can there be a future for Dyliess if there are no men? Ask her that. How will her heritage go on? How will ours…” Istril's voice died away. “I'm sorry.”

“It's all right. Nylan wasn't my type, and Mertin never lived long enough…” Saryn took a sip of the cool tea, more to give herself time to think. “It might be…it just might…”

“What?”

“If we plant the idea that it will happen, if only after her death…and then ask if she would rather establish something that she can control, with rules and traditions…”

“You're the only one she talks to about such.”

“And very seldom,” Saryn replied dryly. “I'll have to be careful about when I bring it up and exactly how I approach it. She gets less approachable every year.”

Istril's smile was faint and sad.

“How are those concentrate pills from the willow bark working?” asked Saryn quickly.

“I don't know that they're any more effective than the liquid, but they're a lot easier to give, especially for the younger children. I can slip them inside a morsel of cheese or softened bread, and they don't taste the bitterness. They only hold down the fever. It doesn't help with the infection chaos, except that the body is more able to fight when the fever's not really high.”

“I wish we had more…”

“Soap and water are the biggest help. That's one place where the military discipline helps. They just have to wash up frequently.”

“I've told Llyselle and Hryessa that those who are lax should be assigned to cleaning the stone drainage channels and the millraces, and especially the sheep pens and the stables. It seems to help.” Saryn laughed softly.

“Do you know what Ryba has in mind for dealing with the Gallosians?”

“Not yet.” Although Ryba had said little, what ever strategy the Marshal adopted would be efficient and deadly.

“Maybe we could capture a few of the younger men, ones who are little more than boys.”

“They'd probably have to be wounded or disabled.”

Istril nodded. “With no future back in Gallos.”

“We thought that might hold Narliat and Relyn,” Saryn said. “Ryba will remember. She doesn't ever forget.”
Or forgive.

“It's worked with Daryn, and Relyn hasn't caused us any harm. His words might even have brought us some of the guards we now have.”

Neither mentioned that Narliat had died for his treachery.

Saryn yawned, then set her mug on the table. “It's been a long day.” They all were, but spring and summer seemed short, even with the long days, because so much was necessary to prepare for the long winters.

Istril slipped from the bench and stood. “Good night.” She turned and headed for the stone staircase.

“Good night, Istril.” Saryn stood, then walked the length of the hall and into the kitchen, where she set the mug on the wash rack. She would have washed it, but she'd have wasted more water doing it than leaving it to be washed with the morning dishes. Then she walked slowly back through the empty dining hall—crowded to overflowing when in use, even with four shifts for meals—and up the stone steps toward the fourth-level cubby she rated as arms-commander.

Somewhere, she heard a child's murmur, and the quiet “hush” of the mother.

There should be more,
she reflected, realizing again that Istril was right. But…talking to Ryba about men or children was always chancy.
It has to be done, and you're the only one who can.

That thought brought little comfort as she settled onto her narrow pallet.

As they passed Tower Black and headed along the stone road leading up the slope to the northeast, Saryn and Siret rode near the front of the column, with but three guards before them, a full squad behind them, and three carts following them. Two of the carts were empty. The third held goods captured from the occasional brigands who had disregarded the borders of Westwind.

“What do you want most from the traders?” asked Siret, her eyes on the ridgeline above, where two mounted guards waited, surveying both the north and south slopes.

“The usual—flour, dried meat, and some of the herbs, like that brinn. Any cloth that's not too expensive, and what ever sulfur we can lay our hands on.”

“No tools?”

“No. Huldran and Ydrall forge better tools than anything that Kiadryn will have. The problem we're going to have before long is iron stock. We're close to running through all those iron crowbar blades that we've accumulated over the years. So we'll need iron—unless we can find our own mine. That doesn't look likely from what little I know about geology.”

As the two neared the top of the ridge, Saryn checked the twin blades at her belt and the extra one in the saddle sheath. She didn't carry one of the rare composite bows. She wasn't that good an archer, and she was far better using an extra blade or two as a throwing weapon.

One of the two guards stationed on the ridge rode forward when Saryn reached the crest of the road. “Commander,” offered Dyasta, “we haven't seen any outliers, and third squad swept through the trees below us, all the way out to the flat.”

“Thank you. Carry on.”

Once Saryn was halfway down the northern side of the ridge, she concentrated her senses on the stand of evergreens below the road leading down to the ceramic works and the mill. She'd never had the degree of order-sensing that she'd seen in Nylan or Ayrlyn, but she got a feeling of reddish white unease whenever there were many people with weapons in an area, and she could sense “flows” when there were people around. Her senses were dependable only for about a kay and a half. Unlike Nylan and Istril, her senses didn't flatten her if she killed someone.

Once she was convinced that there were no hostiles flanking them, she turned her attention to the traders who were, at least in Candar, really a cross between traders and armed opportunistic pillagers. They had planted their banner on the flat to the west of the evergreens that sloped unbroken and gradually downward toward the northeast—before another set of rocky peaks rose some ten-odd kays to the north. Between was the road that wound to the northwest, then back to the north, snaking its way across the northern section of the Roof of the World for long kays before it began to descend into the hills of southwestern Gallos.

There were five carts lined up behind the traders. None of the carts, save the first, which was filled with kegs and barrels, looked to be as full of goods as in previous years. Standing beside the trading banner was Kiadryn, a sandy-haired man with a broadsword in a shoulder harness, similar enough to the one his father, Skiodra, had worn that it might have been the same—except Saryn couldn't imagine Skiodra giving up anything, even to his son.

Kiadryn was as broad-shouldered as his father, but not nearly so tall. He'd taken over the trips to Westwind while his father—at least according to Kiadryn—had concentrated on the trade with Lydiar and Hydlen, and other areas farther east, generally beyond the Easthorns.

The three guards reined up, some five yards from the banner. Siret and Saryn halted their mounts even with those of the guards but on the side away from the traders. Siret dismounted, handing the reins of the mare to one of the guards, and stepped forward to meet the trader.

“Greetings,” offered Kiadryn.

“Greetings, honored trader,” returned Siret.

“I have not seen the most honored Marshal in some time,” said the trader.

“She has seen you. She sees across the Westhorns and how you have attempted to keep far from the arms of the Gallosians.” Siret smiled politely. “But that is another matter. You have come to trade.”

“Indeed we have, honored lady, but matters that have come to pass will make our trading less pleasurable and more costly.”

“Ah, yes.” Siret nodded politely. “You are going to tell me that harvests were slender last fall, and that the rainfall so far this spring has not been promising, and that there is less water in the rivers and streams of the lands to the east of the Westhorns.” She raised her eyebrows.

“All those are true, indeed, but…” Kiadryn paused. “Karthanos's presumed heir has also declared that any who trade with you will have their goods and golds confiscated.”

“That should not be a problem for you,” suggested Siret. “You have already decided not to remain in Gallos. Your father has moved his base to Hydelar, and you are negotiating with the traders of Suthya and the Lady Regent of Lornth.”

Saryn was as surprised as Kiadryn by Siret's statement, but she kept an impassive face.

Kiadryn did not speak for a moment. Then he inclined his head politely. “As always, honored lady, your knowledge encompasses more than most would realize. Yet the harvests in Lornth were not what they could have been. I have not seen the harvests so poor as this since…for many years, since I was a youth.”

“Since the year in which Lord Karthanos sent his armies against the Roof of the World, perhaps?” asked Saryn.

“That might be, honored Commander.” Kiadryn smiled just slightly.

“That is all true enough,” countered Siret, “but the harvests in Lornth were far better than in Gallos. You would rather arrive in Lornth with golds and hard goods than with those which might perish on the trip, especially if you were to be caught in the heavy spring rains that may come to the western slopes of the Roof of the World in the days ahead…”

As the pretrading sparring eased into the negotiations on goods themselves, Saryn watched, her eyes and senses mainly on the others in the trading party, and upon the evergreens farther to the north. Kiadryn would not break the truce of the trading banner, but for enough golds, the trader—as his father once had—could certainly be induced to conduct trading while others attempted to move into a position where they could attack the Westwind contingent.

She also scanned the men with Kiadryn, keeping in mind her discussion with Istril about recruiting suitable men. Out of all those with the trader, there was only one who looked to be less than fifteen, and he was continually playing with the hilt of the blade at his waist.

Saryn did not stop her surveillance until she and Siret were at the ridgetop on their return and heading down the paved road to Tower Black.

“You were studying the trader's men,” observed Siret. “Istril said she'd talked to you.”

“I didn't see any that might fit in at Westwind, did you?”

“I'm not that desperate…I'm not desperate at all.”

Saryn looked sideways at the healer-guard. “There aren't many like the engineer.”

“It's better that he's not here,” Siret said. “Better for him and Ayrlyn and Weryl, and better for Westwind. There's a time and a place for each of us. We have to choose where we belong and when. The engineer knew when to leave. Sometimes, it's best to stay. Istril and I know that we belong here.” Siret shrugged, as if embarrassed.

Saryn had to wonder whether the healer was seeing what she thought was best for Saryn or what she sensed. “Do you have…visions, like Ryba?”

“Occasionally, an image comes to me, but none of them make sense. I've seen a city with a glistening white tower and watched that tower melt like wax under a blinding light like a nova. There's no city like that, and not even the engineer wielded that kind of power. I've seen black-iron ships, but they say that this world has only ships with sails.” Siret shrugged. “Those kinds of visions don't seem very useful. Who knows if they're even true…or if they will be? What about you, Commander?”

“No visions. I can sense what the weapons will do, and where people with weapons lurk, if they're not too far away. That's about it.”
Except for the feel of things swirling around me.

“Those skills are useful for an arms-commander.”

“So are your healing skills,” Saryn pointed out.

“There's pain with those. When I can't help someone enough, it hurts,” Siret said. “I'd just as soon we didn't have to fight anyone.”

“On this friggin' world?” Saryn laughed harshly.

“I know. There's not much choice.”

Neither spoke for a time, but when they neared Tower Black, Saryn turned to Siret once more. “If you would lead my mount back to the stables…Ryba will be waiting.”

“Better you than me, Commander.”

Saryn reined up and dismounted where the road and causeway to the tower joined, then handed her mount's reins to the healer before hurrying into the tower and up to the topmost level.

Ryba was standing before the narrow open window, looking in the direction of Freyja. She did not turn. “Come in, Saryn.” After a moment, she asked, “How did the trading go?”

“The flour was far more costly, over a silver a barrel,” Saryn said. “Kiadryn didn't have as much as we would have liked. That was all he could get because the harvests in Gallos were especially poor. We took all ten barrels. He had a keg of sulfur…”

Once Saryn finished her report, Ryba asked, still looking out the window, “What did you learn? Besides the fact that Gallos had poor harvests last fall?”

“The harvests were poor everywhere. Scanty as we know those in Lornth were, elsewhere they were worse. They won't be any better this coming year. The snowpack was lighter, and we haven't had much in the way of spring snows or rains.”

“We'll need to do more work on the expansion, then. I'd thought we'd have a few years.”

Saryn couldn't help the puzzled look that crossed her face.

The Marshal actually sighed before she replied. “Saryn…I see things. Everyone thinks I see a map of the future. I don't. I see images, sometimes groups of them, and sometimes not for months at a time. All that I've seen about our times since landing has come to pass. The images haven't necessarily meant what I thought they did. Nor did they always occur when I thought they would happen. Wild as I thought some of them were, what led to them often I could not have guessed even with an imagination far wilder than mine. Some of the images I see are of only partial success. Some are of failure. Some of those I tried hard to prevent. I did not succeed. Because I wondered about how true they might be, I've always written them down. No, I won't share them. But I have to try to piece where each one fits. There's an image of the new section of Westwind, with guards struggling to complete a section against fall snows, with women so jammed into Tower Black that there's hardly room to move.” Ryba stopped, turned from the window, and looked at Saryn. “Now…tell me what I should do. If I turn more guards to cultivating and gathering in a time when harvests are lean, will that be enough to sustain us when Arthanos sends his army against us? And will this lone tower suffice for protection against an army when we don't have the engineer or his magic laser?”

“We have you, ser,” Saryn pointed out.

“For better or worse.” Ryba's face remained expressionless. “You'll have to work in more arms training. They'll be tired, but then they'll be tired when they have to fight.”

“More stonework?”

“More of everything, and we can only hope that it will suffice.” Ryba turned back to the window. “That's all.”

Saryn slipped out of the small chamber. When Ryba was so distant, she'd had another vision. Saryn just hoped it wasn't that terrible.